


Dinner tastes great, (when you're not being burned alive for it)

by MatchaMochi



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: .....its not turning out that well, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, gotta admit fluff aint my specialty so here is my attempt in domesticity, i will now present to you modern day quiet neighbour rivalry, they r neighbours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMochi/pseuds/MatchaMochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door beside his stays quiet, but, if you had listen more carefully, if you had cupped your ears and stopped your breathing for a while you’d have heard the dark chuckle of a man leaning just right at the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Mails and Doorknobs

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist. i mean i promised to myself that i'd only start my writing roller coaster after exams but this was stuck in my head TOO LONG.  
> So.  
> instead of studying chemistry i am now writing about two dorks who'd been on my mind WAYYY too long.  
> i wanted to try the 'its 3 AM and you're outside with only your underwear while the building's burning' trope but it grew 0_o.

It wasn’t very important that the first time they actually talk is when one of them is in nothing but their underwear but- no. No. No what’s important was the fact that _despite_ him having nothing on but his underwear he still manages to look like Zeus had just blessed him with all the finest set of bone structure and pretty blue eyes known to man-(never mind the covers of all those teenage magazines strewn around Gaby’s place, the man beside him would have been on every issue-) and not some harassed middle aged man running out half naked after his kitchen decided to explode on him. Huh.

He tilts his head to the side, “Mister Kuryakin.” 

When the other turns to face him, Napoleon’s smile widens. Now he has a better view of that delicious torso, the skin already reddening from the exceedingly cold temperature.  Why was he not violently shivering again? It was _snowing_ for heaven’s sake, the middle of December was never a good time to get out without a coat on. Napoleon can see his bare feet crunching down on the snow below, they were also red. ‘ _How is he still standing straight?’_

Kuryakin notices of course, glares at him and huffs. Napoleon only gives him a guilty shrug but that doesn’t stop the grin growing on his lips when he sees Illya blushing.

“Solo.”

He says it with a grunt and Napoleon laughs softly when he sees the man turn abruptly around in embarrassment. Ah, now he has a full view of that nice piece of art he’d been dreaming about, it’s covered with tight black briefs that doesn’t really leave anything for the imagination and he wonders how it would actually feel to give it a little slap. He hums.

Illya, as if sensing Napoleon’s not-quite innocent thoughts about his bottom gives him a scathing look.

“This is your fault.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Well, to be fair _Kuryakin,_ _I_ wasn’t the one who _started the fire-“_

“ _You_ were the one who said-“

“And how long did you actually left the oven on?”

There’s an awkward pause before Napoleon gives a heavy sigh exasperated,

“Illya-“

Sirens indicating that the ambulance has arrived drowned out whatever Napoleons reply was, the other people around them, murmurs a little louder, some still in their pyjamas, others holding on to their towels and shower caps for dear life. Kuryakin only looks vaguely guilty.

Napoleon sighed again, “You just _had_ to do it on a Sunday don’t you?”

-

Perhaps things are in need of a little bit of explanation. Alright. First things first, Napoleon needs to stress on the fact that he is not, in fact, a known bisexual man. Oh no, he was a proper man, a cheerful one. He visits bars, chats with ladies, picks up their phone numbers and returns home, satisfied and pleased with the promise of a future fun time in bed.

Then, Napoleon Solo lies on his bed. He grabs his phone and not a moment later, the other side answers, its voice deep and husky. It is a man.

Napoleon was not a known bisexual man, he was a _well-known_ bisexual man and he makes sure everyone in his vicinity knows this. Even his neighbour.

The walls isn’t very thick and Napoleon also has very small amount of self-restraint when it comes to romping on the bed and so one thing leads to another and soon, Napoleon also stopped caring when he hears the constant knocking from the place beside  his whenever he moans a little too loud.

Which was, admittedly, a poor decision in his part really.

-

The first warning comes in the form of a broken doorknob. Napoleon frowned, staring at the pieces of metal scattered in front of his door that was actually once a really, _really_ exceptionally reliable doorknob. You know, it being the only way to get in and all. He stoops down touching the jagged sharp metals carefully. ‘ _Broken’_ was not that fitting, ‘ _destroyed_ ’ more like.

He looks around, studies the quiet hallway of his apartment, the clean grey walls staring right back at him in accusation. All he hears is the wind blowing from the cold night outside and the distant yowling of a disgruntled cat. There’s also the cheerful ‘ding!’ of the elevator signalling the arrival of another resident but that was just old Missus Tyrell on her way to terrorise more children to do her biddings, it’s nothing new. Napoleon grits his teeth, taps his foot in irritation. He does not have time for this, he has a big case tomorrow and he cannot afford to be late. So he does not call Gaby. Instead, he calls a locksmith and waits outside until he falls asleep outside his own house.

The door beside his stays quiet, but, if you had listen more carefully, if you had cupped your ears and stopped your breathing for a while you’d have heard the dark chuckle of a man leaning just right at the other side.  

-

The second is somehow less obvious, maybe it’s because Napoleon, again, does not see who the mysterious assailant was. Or maybe it’s because he was piss-assed drunk and couldn’t tell left from fucking right if his life depended on it.

He stumbles out of the creaking elevator, holding on to the dry grainy walls, its small tiles scratching his palms. The other is covering his mouth, throat one second away from regurgitating out on the carpet of his neighbours house and-

Napoleon did. _Shit._

He thinks, ‘ _I hope he doesn’t mind-‘_ before he blanks out and collapses in front of his apartment. At least now his doorknob is fixed.

\--

Napoleon wakes up with a gasp and a mouthful of cold, _cold_ water. He is _drenched,_ his clothes pressing down his back and sticking at his skin. He groans and tries to blink his eyes open only to flinch when the clang of a metal bucket landing on the concrete floor beside him assaulted his ears. And here goes the migraine, _argh._

There’s a loud resounding slam behind him as he struggles to sit upright, water is dripping everywhere. He stands up shakily, goes inside his apartment, and faints on the couch. Wet, dirty suit and all.

The second warning Napoleon gets is less obvious because the next morning he doesn’t remember anything at all.

-

The third one is something akin to being by hit by a truck. With red fiery headlights. And really thick tires.

“WAIT!”

No such luck, the bus leaves him, splashing wet mud at his pristine white suit. Gaby was going to _kill him_ for being late; it’s not every day you get invited to your friend’s engagement party and he was very excited for it too; Gaby said she’d wanted him to meet her friend from _Russia._ ( and maybe it says something about him or maybe it doesn’t but when he fails to have a companion in bed for the night that was, according to Gaby, g _orgeous_ and _available_ he’d have to cross this one out for the new all-time low-)

That does not matter. What _does_ was the fact that _he_ had _been there._ The blond man had been there standing at the entrance of the bus and what he said was, “ _I’m in a hurry-“_ he had gestured behind him where _Napoleon was just standing there gaping-_ and continued, “ _He’s taking a cab, leave him-“_

And he could have _sworn_ he’d seen the man _smirk_ right after the bus sped off leaving him with a vague sense of being _played at._

It wasn’t possible. How? Why? He-

He remembers the red blaring mailbox beside his. Just last Saturday, he’d had accidentally (he repeats: _accidentally)_ spilled cold coffee at one of its letters sticking out of it. 

‘ _Oh, so that’s how he wants to play it?’_

Napoleon feels irritation growing in the pit of his stomach, turning in on itself and morphing into _anger_. He clenches his fist together and hisses,

“ _Kuryakin.”_


	2. Of Flowers and Tyrells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can lie to himself and say that it isn’t adrenaline rushing down his veins, not vicious glee making his hands itch for something to hit, not anger pushing his legs to the window. It seems that someone was running away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manage to squeeze this one out before december, and nope i certainly did not steal any char from game of thrones-

Kuryakin was the very definition of the word ‘sharp’.

He leaves his apartment at seven, not a second after that, his shoes shined, usual black turtleneck and trousers in place. It’s all impeccable really, even if he does insist to wear those paperboy hats Napoleon has only seen worn in television by British mobs (Gaby’s fault). By the time Napoleon reaches the lift, the other is well on his way to work, wherever that is, and the only thing he’ll be able to see is Kuryakin’s retreating back, walking briskly to the next road.  

When the figure fades in the distance, Napoleon doesn’t go in the empty elevator. He checks again at the window to see if Kuryakin was well and truly gone. Then, satisfied that the man will not be coming back anytime soon, he rubs his hands, certainly does not grin mischievously and any witnesses that may have seen him run up to old Missus Tyrell as she heads to the elevator, are silenced because what happens next is really not anything you would have gotten mixed up into.

-

The thing is, old Missus Tyrell lives miles away from her young relatives in town. She hates living with them since they were all convinced she needed to be put in a foster home because she can’t _‘take care’_ of herself and buying an apartment on her own volition (while kidnapping all their cats) gives her the satisfaction of enjoying their disgruntled radio silence.

The problem was, naturally, she _can’t_ take care of herself. Well, not really.

She hobbles down the apartment corridors occasionally; her cane tapping a warning to anyone in her one metre radius to get the hell away or they’ll have to face her demon glare. Her relatives, while still annoyed by her stubbornness, sends her provisions every week via their sons and daughters who were unlucky enough to be sent down to her apartment to do her menial tasks. When they don’t come, family trips, reunions and the such, they, the prestige assholes of the Tyrell family, phones down Napoleon who’s been living here the longest to ‘please take care of the damn old lady can you? Thnks.’

He’s free on Saturdays so playing babysitter for the weekend for the old crone is like expecting ice-cream on a hot day but having chili peppers shove down your throat instead,(maybe not that graphic,).

The old lady has a frail memory and he is _positive_ that she’ll latch on to any able bodied children, man or woman in sight to help her talk about the horrors of today’s generation. Napoleon just decides to leave home on Saturday and go out with Gaby to the mall.

He just hopes Kuryakin will survive ‘till Monday.

-

“The _communist_? I thought it’d be you-“

“Oh please don’t be that harsh-“

“Can he wash the cats?”

“…….absolutely.”

“Alright then.”

-

Illya returns to his apartment at eight sharp. He shrugs off his coat, hangs his hat by the door and sighs as he sinks down the sofa.  As much as he loathes it, he thinks tonight he might just be ordering pizza for dinner; his hands are far too tired to do any real cooking and the beef stroganoff his mother made was finished already.

Tomorrow, he could finally visit the antique shop beside the studio. He’d been eyeing that chess set for a while, the engravings were layered in _gold._

Tomorrow was also a Saturday and he was in need of a well-needed rest.

He closes his eyes in content.

And snaps them open when he remembers a certain anomaly that wedged in inside his familiar routine.

Every evening on weekdays he reaches the apartment’s lobby at 7:55. At 7:56 he would be saying hello to the other residents and ignoring incompetent children that are in his way to the elevator. It takes two minutes in the elevator. At 7:59, he’d be walking in the corridors to his place.

_This_ time though, at 7:59 a sticky note pasted on his door flashes in his mind.

He hurries outside to read it. His eyes narrow as a vein pops out from the side of his head, he murmurs, “ _ty che, blyad,_ _” before slamming the doors shut in anger._

_-_

-

-

There was a way Napoleon grinned that didn’t really sit well.

She knows of course, that this particular one meant that he’s done something ridiculous and is quietly patting himself in the back or whooping in victory in his head or whatever the man does when he thinks he’d won. No, that wasn’t it, she was hundred percent sure that this one was the _I-got-away-from-doing-something-illegal grin,_ similar to the one he had worn in college the day after he shows her pictures from sneaking in the football team’s locker room, (never has she seen so many dicks of various types and colours compiled into one photobook,).

But that’s just it, he _tells_ her the stuff he’s done, she doesn’t like it when he hides it from her, not at all.

“What is it?” it comes out as a sharp snap, but it’s not entirely unintentional.

The man is infuriating when he wants to be, and it shows in his perfectly white teeth and slick hair. She does not care for it, when he smiles at her and offers her a shrug she scowls. 

“ _Fine.”_ She dumps him the pile of clothes she’d chosen for the day and smirks at him, “ _You_ go through that, make sure it’s good.” She plops down on one of the stools at the fitting room with a sigh. The store wasn’t any good than the others but her salary wasn’t that much nowadays, even with Napoleon pitching in to help her find dresses for the after party, (and money,) it wasn’t enough. She hated relying on her fiancé, that man was already busy enough as he is.

“Gaby, I thought you were _saving_ money, these are all designers’ dresses, you-“

“ _Shut up_. I can tell- _you_ can tell, that everything here are fairly expensive cheap knock-offs so _shut up_ and tell me what you’ve done now Solo,”

“Are you calling my _Zegna_ a cheap _knock-off?”_

She glares at him, “Yes. Like you.”

He gives her an injured look, placing his hand over his chest, “Oh Gabriella, I’m hurt,”

“ _Solo,”_

He sighs and stands up, hanging up the bundle of clothes at the hanger, “All right, all right,”, the first one is a strapless top with a flowing cut. He checks the price tag and instantly shakes his head, “remember that annoying neighbour I told you about?” he thinks, maybe, next time he should be paying more attention to what she chooses, this is just _dreadful._

Gaby raises her eyebrows, “The reason you missed the party?”

He nods, “That’s the one,” white frills on top? One could only wonder how she ever wore dresses. “I thought I’d give him a little surprise you know,” Oh that’s right, Gaby hates wearing dresses, too beautiful to be tainted with grease and oil, “Traded places with Miss Tyrell,” Navy Dora cap sleeves…maybe, maybe…

“The nice old lady that lives next door?” Gaby asks, surprised.

He pauses, stares at her in shock, “ _Nice?_ Are we talking about the same person here? That woman is _vile,”_

She chortles, “And you left her with the Russian?”

He smiles, pulls out a long white silver beaded dress and waves his credit card at her face, “I believe this’ll fit the bill,” gives Gaby a pointed look before patting her shoulder, “literally and figuratively.”

She harrumphs, ”Cheeky son of a…”, sighs and waves it off, “whatever, you should be glad I still stick around with you Napoleon, you need more sanity in your life.”

There’s a short content silence as she inspects the dress and nods in approval when she spies the pricing on it. Napoleon hums with Adele as it flows out of the speakers of the store. Gaby sighs, though the smile in her eyes betrays the delight she feels about the dress, “I do regret saying this, but you really have a good eye.”

“Nonsense!” he replies, “You cannot lie to me Gaby, one cannot be a judge if one has never-“

“ _Continue that sentence Solo and I’ll cut your balls off-“_

_“_ You just simply can’t _tell_ , Teller,” he smirks.

She glares at him, “ _YOU-“_

A click from the room beside them interrupts her imminently verbal onslaught. A voice, old and grainy echoes out from the other wall,

“But I like _Gucci,”_

“Madam, I am _very_ sure they don’t sell Gucci bras-“

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit-_

“Napoleon what- hmmpphh!!”

He hisses at her to be quiet, not letting go of the hand clasped around her mouth until she steps on his toes. Hard. _Damn_ those Jimmy Choos,

“ _Ow!”_

“Will you _tell me_ what’s going on?” she whispers furiously.

Alright. _Alright,_ everything is alright.

He hears distant shuffling from the other room and rapidly thinks of the possibility that he might live through this.

He gives her a blank stare and asks her carefully, “Gaby?”

“ _Yes?”_

“Can you…look outside for me?”

She gives him a puzzled look, “ _What?”_

“Just do it, okay?”

He gets an odd look from her but she steps quietly to the door, sticking her head out, looking around the white polished floors and bland peach walls. “What am I supposed to be _seeing?”_

“The other room.”

“Oh.” Silence. Then, “Okay.”

He takes it in stride, he is calm and discreet, he reminds himself that this _isn’t_ the first time he had pissed Kuryakin off and whatever rumours he’d heard about the man, (horrible, grotesque rumours,) it is _certainly_ not true. He can do this. He must.

 “Are they still there?” He stoops down, gathers all his stuff, Gaby’s clothes, his brand new loafers, oh but that tie he wanted….

“Yes,”

“Is it only her?” And of course Pepper spray! You could never know with this kind of things, any situation could get wild, and he’d figured that the man must be itching to punch someone’s face off. He knows because he would too.

“No.”

“Did the man saw you?” Damn it, he didn’t want to pull Gaby into this but desperate measures and such,

“…..no.”

“Does the old lady have a cane in the shape of a bear at the top?” Everything’s all set up, there’s the vent where they could drop off at the counter to pay, or the window where they could just pay later, and last resort, the door where they could run for their lives and hope Kuryakin won’t kill them.

“Uhuh.…”

Because really, if Missus Tyrell would’ve seen him she’d remember, and if she remembers she’d babble to Kuryakin and he’d probably stab him in his sleep and throw his body down the sewers. At least Gaby’ll have a chance, he admits, sometimes he wishes he had her innocent small stature and doe eyes.

“When you hear her cane tapping in this direction…”

Gaby reaches for his hand slowly; he sees a grin growing but he ignores it.

“Run.”

-

They choose the window.

-

-

-

He doesn’t quite hear it, rather, he _felt it_. He feels something pressing behind him, an involuntary shudder similar to when someone is sneering at him behind his back. But behind him there is only the outside, stray kiosks and a line of shops with people scattered about and in front of him, inside, is regretfully the harpy from hell that _someone_ decided to dump on him. She’s currently, tapping the mirror with her cane in efforts of changing her reflection. How old is this woman exactly?

He’s aware it’s a misunderstanding, he could just leave the old bird to potter around the apartment but Illya isn’t entirely heartless. So he puts up with it, entertains the old woman until she’s satisfied and drags him into lingerie shops and suspicious cafes. God, a thousand miles from Russia and his life has come to this, if only his father would see him now, he might not have hesitated that long to disown him, ( _Hah,)._

“ _Shhhh-“_

There, there it was again. He’s quite certain it’s not in his head, (anything from his head echoes with the sound of boots trampling and his father’s disappointed voice-), so he ignores the woman’s ramblings about the political state of her knitting club to slowly, carefully, look outside the wide window of the room they entered.

He sees a flash of navy blue and shiny black loafers.

He narrows his eyes.

-

“Act normal.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who jumped out the fucking _window-“_

“Shush, he might be following us,”

“Napoleon, this is hilarious, I’ve always liked playing ‘spies’ with you but-“

“You did? Even after your father found out about you’re-”

“ _We don’t talk about that alright-“_

“-and he thought we were-“

“Yeah, yeah. The things _is_ Napoleon, this is huge fun and all but I don’t know when we can pay back all- _shit he’s following us-“_

_“Told you-“_

_“Shut up!”_

_-_

He can lie to himself and say that it isn’t adrenaline rushing down his veins, not vicious glee making his hands itch for something to hit, not _anger_ pushing his legs to the window. It seems that someone was running away.

 Illya tells Missus Tyrell to stay awhile, that he needs to use the men’s, she waves him away with a disgruntled scowl and hobbles to the far side of the room.

He jumps out the window with a straight face.

-

“He is _on_ to us Solo, you better think of plan right now because I am _not_ going to ruin this dress-“

“Ten o’clock, that seedy bar at the left side corner, you see it?”

“On it, let’s go,”

-

He has played this game before, it reminds him of the time he breaks a man’s arm from trying to scam him or the other time where he shoots a thief at the leg and stares as the man collapse with a cry of pain. He notes his surroundings, the throngs of people around the open market space and searches for navy blues and shiny dark shoes.

The bar beside him closes with a short tinkle of the bell above the door. He tries to get in too before a small girl walking along tugs his sleeves and smiles reluctantly at him. She holds a picnic basket at her arm, filled with a bunch of flowers, variant red roses to pink peonies. She holds it out to him, “Would you care for one sir?”

Illya freezes as he hears another tinkle, ‘ _Distraction?’_ He looks at the girl and tries to smile, (she winces but he ignores it,),

“Alright.”

-

“Nice one Solo, now we owe the girl, what was it? A bicycle?. I thought _you_ were saving money-“

“Oh Gaby, who do you think I am? The girl was foolish to believe me.”

“….you’re an evil man Solo,”

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Anyway, it seems like dear Mister Kuryakin has bought flowers from the poor girl, he’s cute you know,”

“Yeah? Just pray he doesn’t come in here,”

“Oh I think he’ll be heading back now he hasn’t- shit.”

“What?”

“ _Out. Get out now-“_

-

It was the best kind of goose chase Gaby has experienced in _years._ Napoleon spots the Russian getting in and she ducks under the table, her heart beating fast. She grabs all their shopping bags and at the exact moment Kuryakin looks the other way, Solo ducks down too and they crawl out through the back door.

She smiles at the confused barista and whispers, “Angry ex-boyfriend,” while glancing at Kuryakin at the front. He seems to understand anyway, and she feels surprised that he takes it all in stride when they turn up at his shoes huddled and grinning guiltily.

“Take the back door, first turn at your right,” he whispers right back and blankly replies to the Russian as he orders sprinkled water.

Outside, a back alley with the usual garbage dumps and dirty muddy water that usually associates itself with back alleys, makes her pinch her nose in disgust and give Napoleon a dirty look.

They went merrily on their way back to the narrow lanes and alleys of the town right before Solo grabs her arm and pulls her back. Hisses, “He’s still _there,”_

She shakes her head, couldn’t let the wry chuckle from escaping and peeks over the wall to find the tall man, looking around, eyes narrowed, straight-backed and walking right towards them. What made her laugh though, was the flowers tucked at his front pocket, it was _surreal_. Like a serial killer on the loose planning to give flowers to his sweetheart once his done.

“Persistent _dog.”_

And so the chase begins.

-

-

It takes them the whole evening. Running through crowded lines of people, disguising as a couple locked in embrace, (she pokes Napoleon’s eye for that), hiding behind newspapers and magazines on a bench but always, _always_ turning up back at the same place.

Kuryakin at their heels, them running away.

It finally ends when they left him trapped with a horde of schoolgirls that has heard that ‘ _that man over there is desperately looking for someone to give those flowers to, care to help?’_

Needless to say, Gaby and he have effectively shattered their eardrums from the collective instant shrieks from the girls. He shudders to think what Kuryakin would have had to endure.

-

-

He comes back to the store looking debauched and mobbed. His hands shakes, hair standing up all over the place, shirt torn at the collars and sleeves, and he faces old lady Tyrell with a murderous expression.

She wakes up with a snort, her cane tapping incessantly when she tries to get up from the couch she’d fallen asleep from. Someone gave her a blanket, how considerate.

Tyrell only gives him a disapproving glare and mutters, “Took you long enough, young men nowadays, honestly…” before demanding him to take her back home.

Illya grudgingly obliges.

-

_‘Tdy was so fun!! (*_ _≧_ _▽≦)_

_dnt be late for next week’s prep._

_my mother in law is a bij (￣_ _▽+￣*)_

_also_

_dnt let de red peril kill u_

_only I get to do dat  /(=_=)’_

He laughs along the message Gaby sent him, and certainly does not feel nervous at all when he passes by Kuryakin’s door. It’s closed though and he sees no indication of anyone getting out so he gives out a relieved sigh, quickly walking through to his place.

Then he freezes. He puts his bags down carefully beside his door and takes the sticky note out from it at the front. It reads,

‘ _I KNOW ITS YOU SOLO’_

In thick black ink on red paper, the _Solo_ was bolded several times, with blotchy ink and also underlined like so. Napoleon thinks, ‘ _Ah well,’_ and thought about leaving a note for the man in the morning as a reply.

-

Miles from Napoleons apartment, Gaby sighs as she sinks in bed, her phone tucked between her shoulders and cheek, murmuring to the receiver at the other line,

“ _Tired really, haven’t ran like that for years,”_

_“You’re getting shabby aren’t you?”_

_“Quiet.”_

There’s a soft laugh at which Gaby couldn’t stop smiling fondly to before,

 “ _You didn’t tell them?”_

Gaby bursts out in laughter and replies,

“ _Of course not!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah.. things r very vague/unclear/??? now but as we go further we'll know more about them, :)  
> (I love the idea of Gaby and emoticons,)

**Author's Note:**

> OH IT IS ONNN, LET THE FIGHT BEGIN  
> *bangs gong*  
> ....comment?  
> PS(I'd probs continue this after exams which is like at nov so that probs be when i update again, and be hella longer than this one mind you-)


End file.
